I'm so glad this bipping nonsense is over.
What a relief it is to walk to my mailbox and pull out a package that contains individual cards, each one distinct from the next. What joy that I no longer have to reassure my wife that I do not have an unhealthy obsession with Alex Gordon just because I have eight of his Timeline card.
As a six-time bippee I know what havoc bipping can create. The sleepless nights, the panic-filled days. The binge drinking. Your life makes no sense. The very thing you love -- a card package -- had become the same thing that you dread.
People would ask me, "did you get another card package today?" I didn't want to tell them anymore. I used to be proud of my puffy envelopes. Then, they brought nothing but shame.
What was it all for anyway? Was it for bragging rights? "Look how many Dave Gallagher cards I can send you."
Or maybe it was a power trip. "I'll teach you to root for the Mets. Here are 45 Tim Bogar cards."
Perhaps, since the card blogging community resembles a club, this was our initiation ritual. You have to admit it's an improvement over wedgies or alcohol poisoning.
In a weird way, I'm going to miss bipping.
For one, it gave me something to write about when the idea meter was on empty. Secondly, it filled me with awe, that some collectors had so many cards that they could distribute 50 Karim Garcias and probably still have a 150 more back in the garage.
In a world where people have lost their enthusiasm for their job, their neighbors, their family, their community, we could find enthusiasm again for dumping copious amounts of cardboard on a fellow collector.
Yeah, I'm going to miss that.
But, don't get me wrong. I'm not going to miss it so much that I'd like it to continue. Sure, I need an excuse to send out the bippings that certain people so richly deserve. But there is a cease-fire, and as someone who has been hit by his share of bipping bullets, I really should recognize it.
So, I've stopped mailing bippings. And I now walk to my mailbox with shoulders high. I chat about my cards with family and friends, guilt-free.
Doubles are now doubles again, not bip-fodder.
It feels good. It feels right.
We have moved beyond bipping. Thorzul has issued a new challenge. He has asked us to save our baseball card wrappers. He would like us to mail them all on Monday to the folks at Beckett, who make a rather pointless magazine (I, for one, have never purchased a single Beckett Magazine).
Instead of attacking our own with bippings, why not bip an often-worthless magazine with worthless wrappers?
I know I have some wrappers lying around. Just a minute ... I'll track some down. ...
Hang on, there are some wrappers around here somewhere. I know there are. I just saw a bunch of them the other day.
Maybe they're over in this pile. Let me check. I'll be right with you ...
OK, they're not there. Maybe they're under here. ... No .... How about here? ... No ...
God, where are they. I've got a TON of these things, how come I can't find them? They didn't just walk away. They've got to be ...
Wait a minute, I think I know why I can't find them.
It's because they're all BURIED UNDER 64 1990 DONRUSS BRYN SMITH DIAMOND KING CARDS!
Can I just mail Beckett my bippings instead?
(Thanks a lot, Drew. What am I supposed to do with these things?).
(Oh, and I ain't done with bipping either).